IT'S THREE GLASSES IN QUICK SUCCESSION and enough oysters to feed a small village that I finally admit- Noel is definitely ignoring me.

At first, I could convince myself that maybe, just maybe he didn't actually see me. It's a room that's practically alive with human presence, and I'd been swallowed up by the warmth of bodies and hum of conversation from the moment I stepped in. I'm sure we're both hovering on the right size of a decent buzz, so, the first time I give him the benefit of the doubt.

The fifth time, I do not.

The sixth time, I am pissed off.

I've been circling him for the past twenty minutes, brow arch more condescending every time I step into his peripherals and he, once again, looks away. By now he's staring so aggressively at the ceiling that he might fall in love with it, and he's barely even paying attention to the conversation playing out in front of him. Probably on the off chance I might be in his line of view beyond someone's shoulder, which, I am.

And he's not even smooth about it.

He's already downed two flutes of champagne, the rim of the glass reaching up to meet his lips every two to three seconds, and his mouth keeps twitching as if he's about to say something but never does. He's run his hand through his hair close to a thousand times, that angelic-faced woman still faithfully clasped around his arm.

I have no idea who she is, what relationship they have, but I refuse to play the fool and jump to conclusions. Even if they're practically gallivanting around the room like secret government prototypes for the rich and the famous.

Whatever.

Either way, after everything we've been through- at the most minimal degree, I deserve some sort of acknowledgement from Noel in public. A smile. A nod of the head. Something.

Waving a second time retrieves zero recognition on his part.

A middle finger the third time, strangely enough, gives me nothing.

Pointing to my eyes, and then to him with a look I'm sure lived in the gaze of Bruce Willis in every single Die Hard movie is absolutely useless.

There are a lot of things I am, I'm sure Nikki could write the next great American novel on it, but easily ignored is not one of them.

It's with a mounting frustration that can't be drowned in alcohol that I steal another glass, along with the arm of one of Mark's friends I vaguely recognize- Gerry, Gerard? Regardless, he's a source of conversation, since Nat and Mark are on the other side of the room entertaining Mark's a touch senile grandma, and I need conversation.

Or more realistically, a distraction.

And while I find no interest in basically anything that leaves his mouth, there's aging frat boy written all over him in the worst kind of way, his presence is enough to work with. We're strategically placed in Noel's peripherals, on my part of course, and judging by the way he's adjusting his tie, I know he sees us.

"Blake Bortles is killing my game- he's dragging down the entire team. At this rate, it'll all be over for me. I shouldn't have traded for Cousins. What a stupid fucking move."

I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Fantasy football," Grant clarifies, grinning, as if that's supposed to mean anything.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see we've temporarily caught Noel's attention, and I'm exploiting George's presence to the fullest extent. I throw my head back and laugh- bellowing and obnoxious, and graze his bicep. All of it is practiced in a way I've done time and time before.

Greg's smile is confused. "Hmm?"

"You're so funny," I reassure him, voice a pitch higher, beaming. "I seriously can't get enough of you."

This easily pleases him- he's all teeth and eyes flashing with a future that I'm sure has his palm pressed on the small of my back as he leads me out the doors. I'm not too concerned, I'm sure I'll be easily replaced by one of the many other girls that's giggling into her bubbly around the room.

What I'm more concerned with is the fact that Noel's mid-conversation with the older lady, and he is clearly not falling for any of my middle school tactics.

Which, fair enough. I was much more sly in high school.

I grin up at the man in front of me, and slowly my touch wanders from his bicep to his jawline, light and tempting. He doesn't seem the least bit bothered by this advancement as his eyes drag down my chest.

"You know, Glenn, I really think-"

"It's not G-"

"I really think," I cut him off, grin bright, "that you smell amazing. Really, I can't get enough. What is that?"

When I lean in, his eyes are sparkling, and his previous thought is long forgotten.

"It's Tom F-"

I don't give him the courtesy to finish his sentence as I press forward, capturing his lips with my own. They're soft and warm, and most importantly welcoming as my hand migrates to the back of his head, pulling him closer. As he's about to venture further, tongue brushing along my bottom lip, I pull away.

"Thank Tom for me, then," I murmur, smiling sweetly.

Gordon's too dazed to respond other than a slightly confused hum, still two-seconds in the past judging by the faint smile still playing on his mouth.

With a precarious swirl of emotions in my chest, my eyes shift over to Noel's direction just in time to see the dark-haired beauty on his arm reaching to whisper something in his ear. Instantly my excitement deflates.

He's not looking over here, instead, he's smiling- and it's one of the more genuine ones, I admit, albeit a tad begrudgingly. Sucking in a deep breath hardly quells the new-found tightness in my stomach.

Although they're only standing there, it feels as if they're parading their offensively good-looking selves around the room, digging the heels of their expensive Italian shoes all over my dignity.

There's a small part inside that reasons that I shouldn't even really care- even if he is ignoring me, who is he, to me, really? I don't even know the girl next to him, who he seems pretty close with from the way they move so naturally around one another.

But still, as my inhibitions loosen along with my limbs, I'm beginning to realize that I could.

Which is an awful revelation to have, especially when you're drunk.

They both fit so snugly within the aura of extravagance it makes me nauseous. He looks so perfectly in place it hurts, and as he grins down at the girl next to him, it's a reminder that somehow in Mark's apartment I'd felt like I'd had the upper hand, or at least equal playing ground, but here I'm realizing it was all an illusion. Here, on his home turf, I'm crumbling under the pressure.

"Hey, can I bum a smoke off you?" I ask Gideon, flat, not even bothering to play up my pseudo-smile.

Suddenly the game isn't as fun to play when you realize that you're playing by yourself.

He pauses, blinking a couple of times as if returning to the moment, and refocuses his gaze on me. "What?"

"A smoke," I echo, making a vague gesturing with my two fingers around my mouth. "Cigarette? Dart? Cancer stick?"

"Oh," he says, chuckling. Suddenly that grin that's all teeth and charm has found his face again, recalibrated and directed at me. "You know, a pretty girl like you shouldn't smoke."

"Mhmm," I hum noncommittally, forcing the edges of my mouth upward. "Can I bum off a smoke?"

He pauses and then laughs, low and husky in a way that feels wrong against my skin. There's a familiar itch in the back of my throat as he shakes one out for me.

As I reach for it, he pulls the cigarette back. "Want me to join you?" he asks, voice dripping with implications I'm all too familiar with.

"Give me two minutes, super quick, and I'll be right back." The lie rolls like velvet off my tongue.

He hesitates and then passes it over to me. "Don't make me wait too long."

"Wouldn't dream of it." I shoot him a small, heartless smile, and then I'm gone.

A part of me is guilty for suddenly changing my tune so rapidly it could give him whiplash, and leading him on for my own selfish needs, but I remedy it by reminding myself that he won't be sleeping alone tonight anyway.

And more importantly, I can't be in this room any longer.

I'm losing the battle to a strong craving for the sweet taste of escape, my nervous system shrieking red-alert under my skin. When the evening breeze gently touches my exposed skin, I shiver.

There's an underlying warmth in the air, coupling with the heat melting in my veins, and it's okay. I already breathe a little better. A little less anxious, less buzzing to get out of my own body.

With a much politer smile, I easily find someone with a lighter among my fellow degenerates outside. As I trail further into the darkness, I'm inhaling the carcinogenic smoke deep into my lungs with relief.

It's been months since I've had a smoke. A habit I always seem to pick back up whenever I've had a few too many drinks and Nat's lack of presence can't stop me.

The wisps dabble past my lips, and I lean my back against the cool brick wall with closed eyes, finally finding some kind of peace settled in my heart. My fingers calm their itching for release. The mingling of subtle music and conversation is muffled from inside, and the glow of the windows is too far to touch me out here.

I'm not sure how much time has passed, but the glow of orange has halfway devoured my cigarette when footsteps capture my attention. That sliver of calm I'd been holding onto is immediately consumed by a new bundle of nerves when a familiar silhouette draws closer. My pulse trips, and I look back to the ground.

He's, surprisingly, alone.